A Tale Untold
by Nimloth
Summary: A little gapfiller, including some musings about why it was Legolas who was chosen to represent the Firstborn on the Quest instead of some great lord like Glorfindel, and about what might have happened had a certain Elf been tempted by the Ring...


Author's note: Just another little gap filler, trying to stay true to the Professor's settings and characters. Not terribly original, I know. And you know that I don't own any of these characters. Anyway, here it is, my speculation about what might have happened if a certain Elf had been tempted by the Ring ...

**A Tale Untold**

It was eerily quiet.

Except for the dim hissing and crashing of the swift river as it raged angrily between the sharp rocks of Sarn Gebir some distance away, no sound broke the darkness. There was no night bird's call in the air, no rustling of small animals in the deep brakes of sloe and thorn that crept up the steep slope. To be sure, there would not be much wildlife in this bleak, inhospitable stretch of land alongside the Anduin, so close to the Emin Muil. Yet this utter silence seemed unnatural. It was almost palpable, as if some malevolent presence had swallowed all sound and was now hovering at the edge of the darkness. Waiting. Stalking ...

The company had spent a wearisome day, toiling along the old portage-way with their boats and baggage on their shoulders in an attempt to find a way around the vicious rapids of Sarn Gebir. The weather had been grey and dreary, and whenever the dense fog had lifted, there was naught to be seen but jagged rocks and crumbling cliffs, with the occasional gnarled, windswept fir-tree digging defiant roots into the barren soil.

They had finally stopped at the shallow edge of a little pool scooped in the river-side and protected by a low pier of rock that jutted out some way into the stream. Their boats they had left securely drawn up on the shore, and then retreated a little way up to a secluded spot underneath a protruding cliff where they could hope to build a small fire without being discovered by unfriendly eyes yet still keep an eye on the boats.

As the tired travellers shared their frugal evening meal, the mood was hushed and subdued, for the memory of the great winged shape that had swooped down on them the previous night still haunted their memory. Even though it seemed that the arrow loosened from the Elven bow had brought down the black creature, the companions could not shake the feeling of icy fear it had instilled in their hearts. The younger hobbits in particular were unusually and uncharacteristically quiet.

Aragorn let his gaze wander around the campsite, taking in the dark shapes of the sleepers and the figures of the two hobbits who were sharing his watch, huddled close to one another. The small circle of light cast by the low-burning fire barely touched their faces. But even so, the Ranger could discern a weariness in Frodo's face that was not brought about by mere lack of sleep.

Like Aragorn, Frodo knew what that black shape had been, had felt it in the sharp stab of pain in his old shoulder wound. He had been touched by a Nazgûl once before; this time he had been spared, but the sheer proximity of the evil being had left him shaken. Neither hobbit nor man had said anything when Legolas, in answer to Gimli's praise of his nigh impossible score in the dark, had wondered what it was his arrow had hit. As if by silent consent, they had kept their knowledge to themselves, not wanting to frighten their companions any further.

The first watch of the night had passed without incident. A little after midnight, Boromir had woken Aragorn, and Frodo and Sam had taken the places of Merry and Pippin. A thin mist had risen, reflecting the flickering firelight and illuminating the darkness of the night in a strange, unreal way. Ever-changing, ghostly shapes wavered around the small company. But all remained quiet. Uncannily quiet. Yet so far, no threat had materialised from those shadows.

Aragorn puffed on his pipe and shifted his gaze from Frodo and Sam to the big bulk at the edge of the circle of light. Boromir was sleeping fitfully, tossing and mumbling in his dreams. An uneasy feeling came over Aragorn. After all these weeks of travelling together, he still wasn't sure where the loyalties of the man from Gondor lay. True enough, he was a noble son of a noble house, and a mighty warrior who had not hesitated to defend his companions from the dangers of Moria. Aragorn doubted not that Boromir would fight Mordor's emissaries and armies with all his strength, he doubted not that the man wanted nothing more than to see the dark lord vanquished. But he had also seen the desire in Boromir's eyes, that strange glint that came into his gaze whenever he looked at the Ringbearer.

Aragorn would have to keep a very close watch on Boromir.

With a sigh, the Ranger willed these thoughts from his mind and let his eyes skip across the two sleeping hobbits, Merry and Pippin, to where Gimli and Legolas lay resting. Despite his dark mood, a smile stole across Aragorn's weary features. If ever there had been an unlikely pair of friends, here was one ... The small, gnarled figure of the dwarf heaved and rumbled with deep breathing and the occasional grunt as he adjusted his position in his sleep. Next to him, almost ethereal in comparison, the Elf lay stretched out on his back with slender hands folded across his chest, staring at the darkness above, completely motionless. Accustomed as he was to the ways of the Elves, Aragorn still sometimes found their way of sleeping with their eyes wide open rather uncanny. Now, it only served to heighten the contrast between these two improbable companions.

Not for the first time, the Ranger pondered the reasons for Lord Elrond's decision to choose this quiet, unassuming Elf from the woodland realm of Mirkwood to represent the Firstborn in their quest, rather than perhaps Glorfindel or one of the other great Elven lords who resided with Elrond in Imladris. Certainly, regardless of his lithe build, Legolas was a seasoned warrior whose strength easily surpassed that of the much sturdier men among the Nine Walkers, and he had already proved his skill with bow and arrow many a time on their journey together. Yet given the utmost importance of this mission, the outcome of which was to decide the fate of Middle-earth, it would have seemed more appropriate for the likes of Elladan or Elrohir, Elrond's twin sons, to accompany Frodo.

On the other hand, it might be that Elrond had hoped for a new union between the forest and the mountain and had deemed it less likely for a great Elven lord to tolerate the presence of a dwarf, let alone form any kind of friendship with one of the nogothrim, the stunted people. Perhaps that had motivated Elrond to appoint an Elf of lesser standing

But no, that was not quite true, Aragorn reminded himself, not for the first time. Despite his unpretentious demeanour and easy willingness to follow somebody else's lead, Legolas was not a simple Wood-elf but a king's son, a lord in his own right. The Ranger doubted that apart from Gandalf and Gimli, any of the companions were fully aware of Legolas's royal lineage; it seemed that his introduction at the Council meeting as the son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood had been all but forgotten. The Elf himself never made any mention of his parentage; the fact that he was an equal amongst kings and lords had shown briefly once, when the company had reached Lothlorien, and none but he and Aragorn had withstood the piercing gaze of the Lady Galadriel as she tested their hearts and minds.

Aragorn's thoughts wandered back to their one previous meeting, some eighteen months ago now, in the great hall of King Thranduil's palace in Northern Mirkwood. With him had been Gandalf and the creature Gollum, screeching and wailing his protest at being dragged along, bound by Elven rope. Gandalf had asked Thranduil to take the emaciated creature into custody. He had deemed the dens of the Elven king's halls a rather unlikely and therefore secure place for keeping Gollum – keeping him from escaping as well as for his own safety, for the designs of the dark forces concerning Gollum were unclear.

Aragorn recalled how Thranduil had studied the pitiful creature in silence for a while before turning his eyes of grey steel upon Mithrandir and nodding his assent. It was only then that the Ranger had become aware of the tall Elf standing at a respectful distance behind the king's carved throne, watching and listening intently. Their eyes had met; and Aragorn had been taken aback both by the strong resemblance between Thranduil and this Elf, clearly marking them as close relatives, and by the openness of the clear, blue eyes, so much gentler than the Elven king's. A moment later, however, a firm resolve had replaced that impression of gentleness as a silent pledge passed from Elf to man that the folk of Mirkwood would not fail in their trust. Later Aragorn had learned from Gandalf that this was Legolas, the older of Thranduil's two sons; but he had not had the chance to make the prince's acquaintance before heand the wizard left the king's halls again in the first light of the next morning, setting off on separate paths.

Remembering the wordless promise that Legolas had given him, back in Mirkwood, it occurred to Aragorn that perhaps it had not been only Elrond's design that had led to this particular Elf's participation in the quest for Mount Doom. The pledge had been broken, though the Elves of Mirkwood were hardly to blame for that; the ambush by Orcs and Rhûnrhim(1) that had freed Gollum could not have been expected, given the secrecy of the creature's capture and captivity. Yet Aragorn was sure that Legolas, who had been in charge of the party guarding Gollum in the caves of the Orodamrhûn(2), assumed responsibility for his escape. The more he thought about it, the more likely it became that Legolas had asked Lord Elrond for this chance to redeem himself for what he considered his failure.

Aragorn let his eyes wander again, taking in the shapes of the curled-up dwarf and the graceful Elf, and smiled. Whatever the reasons, it had worked out well, fulfilling the designs of both Elrond and Legolas. Although the Ranger was none the wiser as to what had happened during their stay in Lothlorien that had made the son of Mirkwood's proud king extend his hand in friendship to a dwarf, he was glad to see that Gimli had accepted it, thus agreeing to help heal the breach that had come between their peoples in general and their fathers in particular.

With a barely suppressed yawn, Aragorn stretched and got up, indicating to the hobbits that their watch was nearly over. Frodo didn't move, but Sam scrambled to his feet and made his way over to the prone figure of the dwarf. His large feet padded noiselessly among the other sleepers, for hobbits can be almost as silent as Elves when they have a mind to do so. And yet, Sam had not taken three steps towards Legolas and Gimli when the Elf sat up, blinking his eyes once; the next moment, he was on his feet, wide-awake, bow and quiver in his hand. Aragorn could not help being impressed, once again, by this demonstration of the speed of elvish reactions.

Gimli, on the other hand, was a little longer in waking. It took quite a bit of shaking and pushing by Sam to bring the dwarf to a semblance of consciousness; however, when Legolas joined in the hobbit's efforts with some good-natured teasing about dwarvish sleeping habits, Gimli shook off his drowsiness rather quickly and climbed to his feet, grumbling unintelligible but distinctly annoyed words into his long beard.

It was not long ere complete silence descended on the camp again. Aragorn, Frodo and Sam had curled up under their blankets and soon seemed to be fast asleep. Gimli stopped his pacing and flapping of arms, which he had embarked on to wake himself fully, and sat down on a rock next to the fire. He added a few branches of dry wood to the flames but took care not to let them flare up too much. Legolas sat cross-legged on the ground on the other side of the fire, his quiver between his knees, and took out one arrow after the other, inspecting the shafts and trimming the fletchings where necessary. From time to time, he looked up and around, listening intently into the night; but even his sharp ears did not pick up any sound above the muted gurgling of the river below.

"Legolas?"

"Hmm?" The Elf looked up from his work. Gimli was staring into the surrounding darkness, searching for what he could not see. There was an odd expression on his face, and it conveyed the same message as the tone of his question. Fear.

"That ... thing you shot down yester night. That black shape." He paused, as if reluctant to voice his worries; but despite the darkness, Legolas could read his friend's feelings plainly, and forestalled the next question. "Nay, Gimli. I did not kill it, and I too fear that it may return."

Gimli nodded, grateful that Legolas had confessed his fear first, and so candidly. It was a measure of their friendship that the Elf did not seek to hide behind his pride, and had spared the dwarf the embarrassment of admitting a feeling that should not trouble a seasoned warrior by doing so himself. With that knowledge, Gimli relaxed the tight grip on his worries and pursued the matter further.

"Have you any idea what it was? I know you did not share all of your suspicions earlier, when the young hobbits were still awake." A brief smile flitted across Legolas's face, but immediately his expression sobered again. "Your perception is keen, Master Gimli. Indeed, I did not want to upset the little ones with dark memories."

"Memories? You have encountered this shadow before?"

Legolas hesitated, twirling an arrow between slender fingers while searching the night around them with his keen eyes. Then he looked at his friend again, and the terror that was echoed in the Elf's eyes sent a chill down Gimli's spine.

"Yes, I have encountered it before, or perhaps another, of like malice. You have heard of Dol Guldur, the black fortress in the south of my father's realm?" Gimli nodded, and another shiver ran down his back upon hearing that name, a name that recalled evil memories from a not too distant past. As if Legolas had read his mind, he shook his head.

"Not only memories dwell in that dark place. While the enemy does not use it as a permanent abode any longer, it is still inhabited by orcs and other foul creatures. Sometimes, though..." Legolas's voice faltered, and the effort it cost him to continue was palpable. "There were times, until not so very long ago, when it was used as a base from which to conduct forays into our realm by his most powerful servants. The Nazgûl."

Gimli let out a barely suppressed yelp. Legolas cast a long, inscrutable look at his short friend before continuing. "I once had the misfortune of getting too close to Dol Guldur at such a time. I would not have done so had it not been for the recklessness of my brother, although he might tell a different tale of the circumstances." He paused, and seemed to withdraw into himself; when he spoke again, his voice was barely more than a whisper. "I remember only too well that malicious presence, cold as a dagger of ice driven deep into the soul. I felt it again today, when my arrow hit his winged steed, and his anger turned towards me before he fell."

Legolas fell silent. Gimli stared at his friend, quite shaken by this account. He had heard of the Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths, Sauron's most faithful and most terrible servants, and he was not keen to find out firsthand whether the tales of horror were true. Judging by the look in Legolas's eyes, that experience was something he could do without.

All talk ceased, and time passed slowly and quietly. The first half of their watch was drawing to a close when Gimli's eyelids started drooping, and once or twice his head snapped up from his chest where it had inadvertently come to rest. Finally, loud breathing turned into low snoring, indicating that sleep had won over the best of dwarvish intentions.

Legolas, who had finished with his arrows and now stood a few steps away from the fire, scanning the shadows, turned when his ears registered the subtle change in tone. He took in the stout, slumped figure, asleep upright on his rock, and bit back a smile. The gruelling journey had taken its toll on Gimli, who was still highly uneasy on the water and despite his newfound delight in all things elvish did not entirely trust their light boats. It made for uncomfortable travelling.

Still, they needed two pairs of eyes on their watch. Legolas quietly made his way over to the sleeping dwarf and reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, when a low voice called out to him.

"No, don't wake him."

Surprised, the Elf turned to see Frodo cast aside his blanket. The hobbit got to his feet and stepped into the circle of light. "I will keep watch with you. I cannot find sleep anyway."

Legolas looked down at Frodo's tired but resolved face. Then his eyes wandered over to Gimli, and back to Frodo again; at last he nodded his agreement. Frodo lowered himself to the ground opposite the sleeping dwarf, while Legolas resumed his earlier position on the edge of the shadows. For a while, neither of them spoke; but Legolas's eyes kept wandering between the darkness and the small, quiet figure of the hobbit. Curiosity mixed with caution played across the fair elvish face, and eventually Legolas voiced the question that hung between them.

"Have you been awake all this time?"

Frodo did not reply immediately. He picked up a branch as if to stoke the fire but instead just held it in his hands, his listless fingers betraying his nervousness. When he finally spoke, he did not look up at the Elf but directed his answer to the flames.

"Yes. Yes, I heard what you told Gimli. And I am afraid your suspicions are correct." Seemingly unawares of what he was doing, his hand reached up towards his shoulder. Or was it more towards the chain that was hidden underneath his shirt? Legolas could not tell for sure. In any case, he had heard enough about the attack on Amon Sûl to know what the involuntary gesture implied. A surge of compassion welled up in the Elf. The chill he had felt in his soul upon being the target of a Nazgûl's attention, even only for a moment, had left a shadow of fear deep within him; how much heavier must the darkness be in Frodo's heart and soul, Frodo who had been touched by the icy fingers of Sauron's servant and carried the burden of Isildur's bane, a constant lure for attention of the Dark Lord himself. Legolas marvelled at the hobbit's resilience; he did not wish to even think about what it must be like to be tempted by the Ring's power.

Suddenly, something streaked past at the edge of his attention. Legolas whirled around, slipping an arrow from his quiver and fitting it to his bowstring faster than the eye could see. Startled by the Elf's sudden move, Frodo dropped the branch he had been fidgeting with, and looked up with big, frightened eyes.

"What is it? What can you see?" he whispered anxiously.

Legolas peered into the darkness without moving. A moment later, his ears caught a faint hiss, and a scraping sound near to where they had left the boats, hardly audible even for his keen hearing above the rushing of the river. Yet there was no real menace in whatever made these sounds; although it somehow felt familiar to the Elf, it did not convey the threat of a Nazgûl. Legolas shot a quick glance at Frodo.

"There's something at the boats. Or somebody," he whispered back. With a shudder, Frodo drew his cloak closer around his shoulders; but it was obvious that he, too, did not really feel that they were in danger. Instead, he nodded wearily.

"Gollum."

Legolas lowered his bow, and his initial surprise quickly changed to recognition. A brief memory flashed before his inner eye, the sight of an ugly, spiteful face, wearing a triumphant sneer that turned to fear as the emaciated creature was being led away by orcs. Another memory followed, one of empty eyes staring sightlessly, eyes whose immortal light had been extinguished by the attack that had freed Gollum; and this memory triggered a feeling the Elf had rarely ever experienced in his long life.

Hatred, and the wish for revenge.

Legolas returned the arrow to his quiver and slipped his long knife from his belt. He hesitated for a moment and looked at Frodo, considering the risk of leaving the hobbit to keep watch alone; but as if Frodo understood Legolas's need to seize this chance for redemption, he nodded.

"Take care. He is deceitful," he whispered. "I will wake Aragorn if you do not return soon."

Legolas returned the nod and slipped away into the darkness, down towards the river. He moved completely silently, and the grey cloak from Lothlórien rendered him almost invisible in the foggy darkness, so that even another Elf would not have noticed his approach. Yet when he stopped near the boats a few minutes later, crouched low to the ground and listening hard for another sound from Gollum, there was nothing. Not the sharp, hissing intake of breath, nor the flapping of naked feet; not the pale round orbs of overlarge eyes, reflecting what little light there was in the very early morning sky. Legolas waited, not moving, hardly breathing. But there was nothing. Nothing at all.

The Elf straightened up and cautiously moved closer until he reached the boats; a quick inspection told him that nothing had been taken or damaged, although he did detect the imprints of large, spidery feet. Reluctantly, he sheathed his knife and turned his back on the boats to start the climb back up towards the camp, when, all of a sudden, a cold fist wrapped itself around his heart.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Flinging aside all caution, he raced back the way he had come and reached the campsite in less than a minute. All seemed peaceful; the fire had almost died down, and none of the prone figures curled up in various positions underneath their blankets so much as stirred. Frodo ...

Frodo was gone.

There was no sign of a struggle; it seemed that the hobbit had just got up and walked away, out of his own free will. But the cold dread in Legolas's mind told a different story, and it told him in which direction Frodo had left. Cursing himself for having let his foolish and uncharacteristic hatred lead him to pursue Gollum rather than stay with Frodo, Legolas hastily threw a few more branches into the fire and grabbed a piece of wood that was already burning bright, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Aragorn stirred, half-woken by the sudden crackling of wood in the flames.

"Frodo gwannen!"(3) Legolas hissed in an urgent whisper before he turned to follow the hobbit's trail of fear and coldness into the dawn. The need to find Frodo as soon as possible drove all other thought from his mind, and he trusted Aragorn to take whatever precautions and decisions were necessary.

Legolas had no need for the tracking skills of a Ranger. The shadow that persisted in his mind despite the increasing light of the approaching day clearly showed him the way, and although his spirit quailed at the thought of confronting the pure malice of a Ringwraith again, his steps did not falter for a moment. Yet he tread with utmost caution, keeping his torch low and seeking to shield it with his cloak as best he could as he hurried on. Soon the ground stopped rising and gave way to flat land, and the dim morning light revealed a group of twisted trees, widely spaced in groups of twos and threes and interspersed with rocky boulders of various sizes, perhaps two hundred feet away. Legolas immediately dropped to a crouch and rammed the torch into the ground behind him.

Standing in front of the largest of the tortured trees, there was Frodo. The hood of his cloak was thrown back, and Legolas could clearly discern the inner struggle that was displayed in the hobbit's expression as he lifted a small object up towards the black figure towering above him. Utter fear and stubborn resistance were battling in Frodo's face, and his arm trembled as it held out the thin chain with the Ring dangling from it. Yes, his arm trembled – but so did that of the evil creature opposite him as it stretched out a clawed, oddly transparent hand to take hold of what was offered. It was as if he did not dare touch the object of his desire - or was the lure of the Ring tempting him to claim it for himself?

Whatever the reason for the Nazgûl's hesitation, Legolas knew he had to act fast. He slipped an arrow from his quiver and with quick fingers bent the fletchings he had straightened so diligently earlier, so that they stood out at a slight angle. Then he straightened up, nocked the arrow and took aim, praying that his manipulation of the fletchings was even so that his arrow would still fly true. Just as the Nazgûl's clawed fingers were about to close around the chain Frodo held up, there was a sharp twang from the Elven string, and Legolas's arrow found its mark right through the ring, nailing it to the tree behind them. Almost did the ring slip off the end of the arrow then; almost, but not quite. The bent fletchings held it in its place, fixed in the dry wood of the twisted tree.

With a shriek of fury the Nazgûl whirled round to see who or what had thus thwarted his designs. The moment the Ringwraith's attention was no longer focused on him, Frodo dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Now the cold wrath of Sauron's servant flung itself at the Elf who stood there with the next arrow nocked and ready to shoot, and he swooped down towards his new opponent with impossible speed. Legolas fought down the cold dread that closed around his heart, threatening to paralyse his thoughts and actions, and held the tip of his arrow into the burning torch. The Nazgûl had already covered half the distance between them when the arrow finally caught fire; Legolas raised his bow, desperately trying to steady his shaking hands, and took aim again.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel!"

The flaming arrow flew off the string, finding its mark right in the centre of the black hood. Another infuriated shriek, a loud hissing noise – and the billowing cloak crumpled to the ground, empty, a mere twenty feet away from the Elf.

Legolas let out a shuddering breath and lowered his trembling arms. Then, cautiously, he approached the heap of cloth that had been the Nazgûl, but he knew that the evil creature was gone. Not dead, no; no simple arrow could kill a Ringwraith. But for now, he had fled, and that was good enough. Legolas looked up and over to where Frodo lay near the tree and the Ring.

The Ring. Frodo.

He broke into a run and moments later kneeled down next to the hobbit. A hasty examination showed that Frodo was merely unconscious, not dead; his forehead was clammy under the touch of Legolas's cool hand, but apparently he was not hurt. The Elf sat back on his haunches with a sigh of relief. For a moment, he allowed the grey silence surrounding them to envelop him and soothe his anxious heart.

But then, something tugged at his mind. Something hot, burning, insistent.

Legolas turned his head to look at the tree to his left. His arrow was driven deep into the wood, and from it still dangled the chain with the Ring. In the dim light of dawn that now lit the dreary landscape, the golden band shone with an intensity that was impossible. Its fire beckoned to Legolas, and almost he thought he could hear words on the air, words whispered by a cruel yet alluring voice.

Slowly, the Elf got to his feet and took a few steps towards the tree.

Aragorn stopped dead in his tracks. His pulse was racing after the fast run up the ragged hill; but what he now saw in the diffuse morning light made his heart skip a few agonized beats.

It was not so much the sight of Frodo's crumpled, motionless form on the ground next to a bent, gnarled tree. No, despite his concern for the hobbit, Aragorn's immediate fear was directed towards the other figure.

The Elf stood very close to the tree, his entire being focused on something dangling off an arrow which could only be his own, driven deep into the twisted wood. Although Aragorn did not possess the keen eyesight of his foster race, he had no doubt what the object of Legolas's attention was. Paralysed by a feeling of impending doom, the Ranger watched as Legolas reached out a hand towards the arrow in a hesitating, agonizingly slow movement. Aragorn could not understand what was happening. Surely it was not Legolas's hand that had felled Frodo? What was the Elf doing? What could he, Aragorn, do? He was too far away...

"Legolas, no!" he whispered, desperate, helpless. For a fleeting moment it occurred to him that he should have taken his bow rather than his sword; but the thought of actually having to shoot a member of the Fellowship was pushed aside as he watched Legolas's outstretched hand reach the chain ... watched his long fingers close around it ... And then, suddenly, the Elf recoiled, withdrew his arm as if something had burned him. He stood motionless for a moment, staring at the chain and its tempting pendant. Relief surged up in Aragorn - only to be stifled again when Legolas reached out once more. No hesitation stayed his hand now as he took the chain off the arrow. A low moan of dismay escaped the Ranger's lips. And then...

Then Legolas stepped over to where Frodo lay, knelt down and, gently lifting the prone figure a little by the shoulders, slipped the chain over the hobbit's head. Shifting the limp form slightly so that Frodo came to rest in his lap, the Elf wrapped his cloak around both of them, and moments later the snippets of a soft song drifted over to where Aragorn stood, still rooted to the ground. It was a song of light and warmth, clear and strong in its defiance of the dismal morning's grey chill. Slowly, the melodious notes found their way into Aragorn's frozen heart, their tale of sunshine and laughter dissolving his dread, and the Ranger found that he could move again.

Now he also noticed the crumpled black cloak lying on the ground, not fifteen feet from where he stood, and understanding dawned. He recognized this garment, devoid as it was of the evil it had enshrouded; and when he saw the Elven arrow sticking out of the heap that had been a Nazgûl's cloak, the puzzle pieces fell into place. Legolas must have stood right where he, Aragorn, was standing now; gauging the distance from here to the tree, the Ranger was most impressed with the skill displayed in the shot that apparently had taken the chain and its precious weight out of reach of both Frodo and his attacker. Still, although there seemed to be no immediate danger to the quest, Aragorn's heart skipped another beat again as he looked over towards the two figures huddled against the tree. Frodo was so still in Legolas's arms...

He broke into a run. Immediately, the Elf looked up and reached for his bow; but upon seeing Aragorn, he relaxed and resumed his song, cradling the hobbit in his arms as one cradles an ailing child. When the Ranger reached them, Frodo was stirring and mumbling; he did not wake, but there was a shade of pink in his cheeks that deepened with every verse of Legolas's song, and more and more he seemed like a peacefully sleeping child.

Gently, so as not to upset the hobbit's rest, Legolas got to his feet with Frodo in his arms. His gaze met Aragorn's, and the Ranger was taken aback to see, above all, guilt in the Elf's bright eyes.

"Legolas? Man cairdh cernin?" (4)

Legolas did not reply immediately but shifted Frodo to a more comfortable position, and when he did speak it was with an effort that did not escape Aragorn.

"Frodo offered to relieve Gimli from his watch, claiming he couldn't find sleep, and I agreed. But then..." Again, guilt showed plainly on the Elf's usually composed face, and Aragorn wondered what could have brought this about when clearly, Legolas had just fought off both a Nazgûl and the temptation to take the Ring, thus saving Frodo and much more that was at stake.

"I thought I heard Gollum and went after him, leaving Frodo alone. When I returned to the camp, he was gone," Legolas said quietly.

So that was it. Legolas took the blame for leaving Frodo alone, and for the danger this had brought about for the hobbit. Aragorn understood immediately why the Elf had gone after Gollum; and then, what had been an attempt to redeem himself had almost resulted in the loss of the Ring. Or so Legolas would think.

"Do not judge yourself too harshly, Legolas. I don't know what kind of spell the Nazgûl used to lure Frodo away, but I doubt you would have been able to prevent it had you been present. I also doubt that any of us would have been able to make that shot –" Aragorn motioned to the arrow embedded deep in the tree next to them – "or that any of us would have withstood the call of the Ring."

Legolas nodded slowly, although to Aragorn sensed that his words had not entirely convinced the Elf. But he seemed willing to accept that Aragorn did not hold him responsible for what had happened, and some of the old composure replaced the expression of guilt that had rendered his face so incongruously young and vulnerable before.

"Come, Legolas. Let us return to the others."

They picked their way carefully down the steep slope and back towards their companions. Frodo, who was still cradled in Legolas's arms, had not returned to consciousness, but Aragorn was no longer concerned for the hobbit. Whatever dark dread the Ringwraith had inflicted upon him, it seemed that the Elven song had all but chased it away.

When they arrived at the camp, all lay quiet; none of the sleepers had noticed anything. Gimli was still slumped on the rock he had fallen asleep on, muffled snores emerging from his bushy beard. Legolas gently lowered the sleeping Frodo down to the ground, next to Sam; Aragorn was about to touch Boromir's shoulder to wake the man from Gondor, when the Elf's quiet voice stopped him.

"Aragorn."

Aragorn straightened up again and looked at Legolas, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.

"I do not wish to tell the others about the Nazgûl. It would frighten the young hobbits unnecessarily, and I do not think the other two need to know about it."

Aragorn followed Legolas's gaze from man to dwarf, and then looked at the Elf again. He understood. This was not an attempt by Legolas to conceal his own part in last night's adventure; Legolas wanted to protect his friend, wanted to spare Gimli the embarrassment of revealing that the dwarf had fallen asleep on his watch. And the less Boromir knew about this incident, the better. Aragorn nodded his consent.

"You are right, and I think Frodo, too, will agree." He moved away from Boromir and sat down, pulling out his pipe again. "Let the others wake when they will; I shall keep watch with you until they do. Tonight's tale shall remain untold."

(1)Rhûnrhim - men from the East, Easterlings (my invention)

(2)Orodamrhûn - mountain in the darkest part of Mirkwood, where Gollum was being kept under Thranduil's orders (again, my invention - for details about Rhûnrhim and Orodamrhûn, watch out for the next tale, "Not Through Lack of Watchfulness"...)

(3)Frodo gwannen! - Frodo has gone!

(4)Man cairdh cernin? - What happened?


End file.
